Umbrella in a Hurricane
by wydesky
Summary: Isabella starts college, expecting to feel inadequate. Who she meets definitely makes her feel: perhaps occasionally inadequate, but most of the time a whole other glorious indescribable mix of too much. And she doesn't know if she's prepared for a storm - not with just an umbrella. AU/AH


I am an hour and a half early, and no one else is here yet - at least, as far as I can tell. This is a situation I'm used to. I'm always either dazzlingly early, or stunningly late. I prefer early. People only stare if you're late, and it is usually a positive thing to be early. Or something. It may violate some coolness code, but I'm afraid my copy is hopelessly, beehive-and-bloomers-ly outdated. I claim the most out-of-the-way looking bench in the immediate area, and hunker down in the corner. I would read or doodle, normally, but I'm too jittery for that. Freshman orientation equals social interaction equals me, completely out of my element.

I'm a completely pleasant person to get to know, I suppose. Completely pleasant, completely normal, completely boring. Brown hair and brown eyes, sturdy black-framed glasses. Below average height, above average weight - but nothing too remarkable. Just flawed enough to hover around normal, just normal enough to escape anything more than the occasional snide remark or sideways glance.

But then again, that was in my previous school, in which in the social hierarchy was almost moot - because I was from Phoenix Academy. Every year, tens of thousands of the brightest ten year olds from Arizona and the surrounding states vie for one of the 300 places in Phoenix Academy. After reviewing academic transcripts (although what sort of academic transcripts one has at ten, I don't know), potential applicants are put through a battery of tests. English, Mathematics, Linguistic Ability, Spatial Reasoning, and God knows what else. Another 120 places open for fifteen year olds, but competition for those places are even greater, and "late bloomer" students are never treated quite the same at Pheonix A. Nevertheless, each batch of 420 'nixies graduate as the creamiest of the creme de la creme, no matter the- (shut _up_, Emmett. You do _not _get to joke about this being the closest to action 'nixies get. I _am _the one who cleans your sheets-)

Yes, my mind voices dirty jokes in my brother's voice. No, I do not want to think about the possible psychological/Freudian ramifications. It's possible that it's just that dirty jokes are _so_ Emmett's territory, as is bad-mouthing Pheonix A.

That aside, Emmett has a point. The point would probably be to get to the point instead of flaunting the super-elite nature of my former school, and the original point was that, well, I guess there is a finite amount of blood in the body, and it either flows up to the brain, or down_ there_.

Oh God. Emmett is right. I'm a prude even in my own head. But that was all of us - all of us 'nixies. Because it is almost _never _a ten year old who decides hey, I love doing this studying thing and I want to enroll in this super-prestigious-slash-academic-intensive-slash-competitive school. Neither, for that matter, is it exactly the average ten year old's dream to get into ** HYPMS / Oxbridge - we were too busy slaying dragons and leading charging armies. But roughly 75% of 'nixies do make it. And 100% of us become convinced along the way that it is our dream, too.

So Phoenix A takes precocious ten year olds and tells them that they are academically gifted, that they are the top 1%. Being a 'nixie means your aunt five times removed knows, your dad's barber knows, your mom's secretary knows, and everyone is in a simultaneous and pretty damn long-lasting state of awe and congratulation. And it means that suddenly, what makes a kid special is not, y'know, himself or herself, but whether he scores an unprecedented score on so-and-so IQ test, or whether she wins a platinum medal in so-and-so biochemistry olympiad (because gold is not freaking good enough).

Tell a boy he's handsome enough, he might start thinking his handsomeness is what makes him special. Tell a girl she's smart enough, and she might start thinking her smart-ness is what makes her special. Is it then surprising that 'nixies are about the most academic-oriented and over-achieving students in the country? Because we were. Competitive and driven and hardcore, we flaunted test scores and the number of deans' lists like the way a cheerleader might flaunt her ass...ets. Which was why the social hierarchy thing never actually mattered much to me. Sure, we knew the names of the most brilliant in our batch. Sure, even in a school of nerds, the good-looking people were better known, maybe even had more friends. But the whole awkward walk down the cafeteria/bus aisle looking for a seat? Never happened. We pretty much sat with the people who happened to have the same classes as us. No drama. Spending every other waking minute studying doesn't really leave much energy for anything else.

Which included, y'know-

I know I'm blushing. I know I'm blushing. I know I'm blushing, ugh. Crap crap crap crap - I told myself I'd get over this but the fact of the matter is that we were pretty much asexual in Phoenix A and it was only recently that I had mentally acknowledged the fact that we didn't just sprout bulbs, like onions.

The crux of it all? Very basically, Phoenix A. hadn't prepared me for much. Social interaction? Specifically, opposite-sex interaction? That was a double negative - not a good thing in sentences, but even worse in real life. I have never been bullied. I have never been hit on. These two possibilities scare me within an inch of my life, which really shouldn't be the case for an eighteen year old. And what did I have to show for this complete lack of social experience?

Rhetorical question, that. Because unlike 75% of my cohort (and 100% of my close friends), I did not get into H / Y / P / M / S / Ox / Bridge.

I, Isabella Marie Swan, formerly of Phoenix Academy, as of today am officially a student of Arizona State University, and a complete failure.

** HYPMS refers to Harvard / Yale / Princeton / MIT / Stanford, and Oxbridge refers to Oxford and Cambridge

**A/N:**

This chapter has ... not much action. It built what I thought was a pretty important context for Bella's character, but let me know if it was too boring. Alice is going to take the story by storm very soon, anyway.

completely _completely_ no disrespect intended wrt ASU! In fact, much of the story will probably go on to prove how wrong Bella is. And the selection of ASU had everything to do with the original series (which btw, isn't mine, etc.)

**It's my first story! ****_Ever. _****Help, please.** No, seriously - I don't really know how to go about this business, so tell me if I'm doing anything wrong, or if there's anything you liked, or - I don't know - that you think onions are too smelly for comfortable association with anything sexual. (also: I have completely no idea what to do about disclaimers, betas, and ratings. I wouldn't rate myself an M? I think?)

If that didn't already make it freaking clear, I really, really like reviews. Please? (:

Also, also! Um-Bella in a Hurricane. Heh heh heh heh.


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